Moments
by hannah415
Summary: Life is made up of a series of moments. Moments that shape you we are and what we do, and, sometimes, change everything. Dramione. One-shot.


_First Year_

His father had promised that he would have friends on the train. He had _promised_.

Then why was he wandering alone in search of a compartment?

He did not let this thought stay long, however, as he finally discovered a mostly unoccupied one: the only other member was a small girl with thick brown hair that curled into a mass of ringlets, with a book perched in her lap and a pensive expression on her face. He decided, almost immediately, that he liked her.

Draco opened the door, slipping inside and standing before the girl. "Hello."

She jumped. The book nearly fell out of her lap, and she clutched at its sides hastily. "Hi," she murmured quietly, eying him suspiciously.

"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy." He extended his hand, and the girl tentatively took it.

"Hermione Granger."

"Pleasure."

"Likewise."

They were both quiet for a moment, until Draco asked, "What are you reading?"

Hermione brightened considerably. "Just one of the Transfiguration books. It's awful interesting, you know? I just _adore_ it already. I've read all the other textbooks, you see, so I'm rereading this one…"

She continued on about the book, but Draco wasn't paying much attention. He studied his companion, then; from her black robes to her wand placed neatly beside her, then from her curly-haired head to her button nose. She was rather pretty, as far as girls went, he supposed. She seemed nice enough; brilliant, for certain. He preferred intelligence over anything any day; how else could you hold a conversation with someone?

It wasn't until she said, "My parents—they aren't magic, you see—"

"What?" he interrupted, staring at her.

"My parents? Oh, they're… what do you lot call them… oh yes, Muggles. They're very proud, of course…"

She never seemed to stop talking, once you got her started. He wondered why he didn't just get up and leave right then; he _knew _his father wouldn't like it, and he knew he was meant to look down upon her, but something about the girl… stuck. He wasn't sure what, yet.

* * *

_Second Year_

_Mudblood_.

It vibrated in his skull, piercing every inch of his brain as he considered it. He had relished the taste of it on his mouth; the word uttered so many times in his household, the one that his father spoke so easily. It leapt so fluidly from his father's lips, and he sounded so powerful when he said it, and that's all Draco really wanted.

Reality never lives up to expectations, unfortunately.

He had seen the crease in her forehead that she only got when she was confused, and he didn't know which was worse: seeing her reaction, or knowing she must surely hate him now. After he had uttered that word, how could she not? It would be impossible.

He paced the hallway frantically, in search of the one person he knew he could speak to about this. The only person.

The dungeons were illuminated in the pale glow from the torches lining the hallway, and Draco realized how much he truly hated it down there. It reminded him so much of the Manor, with its dark walls and faintly suspicious air. His lungs were burning from his sprint, and his stomach felt all knotted up, and he could not place why.

He pushed open the door to Severus Snape's office frantically. He stood quite still for awhile, just standing in the entryway, panting. Snape had looked up upon his godson's entrance, and after seeing the slightly-manic look in his eyes, had ceased his writing and put his quill down.

"Yes, Draco?"

Draco idly considered how Snape always sounded so disinterested in everything; how, no matter the situation, he was always detached, calm. This was no different, he mused. Snape would tell him what to do, and everything would be fine.

"I called…" He paused. "I called Granger a Mudblood."

Snape's eyes flashed dangerously, and Draco did not breathe. His godfather seemed to be attempting to restrain himself, and after clearing his throat, he finally spoke. "Why is that?"

"I… I don't…"

"Draco, you must know something. Listen very carefully. She… she will not forgive you easily. You know this, yes?"

Draco nodded his head.

"She may not forgive you at all. Can you handle that?"

He looked to the ground and nodded. But the question tugged at him, even hours later, as he lay awake in bed with her face in his head and her name on his tongue.

* * *

_Third Year_

His ego disappeared the moment her wand was at his throat. He knew, in reality, that she wouldn't hex him; that would defy too many school rules, and although she _insisted_ upon babysitting the dimwitted duo, hexing him would be one too far. He was very confident in this belief.

He did not, however, consider her hand. And how painful it might be to have it make contact with his face.

She was practically seething with anger when she looked at him again, and he could see the fierce glint in her gold-flecked eyes. Her cheeks were flushed and her bushy hair was flying tempestuously around her face, and her fists were shaking she was so furious; he idly considered how the image was slightly becoming for her.

Her friends were right behind her, their mouths slightly agape, and Draco took this opportunity to scramble away, picking up the tattered remnants of his pride as he went. He wanted so desperately to turn around, to see if she was looking after him, but then he heard the last words of the trio's conversation:

"That felt good."

"Not good, _brilliant_."

He heard her laugh (she had such a contagious laugh, he thought), and the jealousy that came over him nearly knocked him to the ground. Crabbe and Goyle looked at him nervously, perhaps because they believed his new anger was due to the incident they had just witnessed.

"Not a word to anyone—you understand me?" he hissed at them as they walked. They nodded dumbly, struggling to keep pace with the thinner Slytherin.

_Can you handle that?_

Yes. He could. He'd have to.

* * *

_Fourth Year_

Draco gathered his belongings as the bell rang, quickly shoving them into his bag as he strutted out the door. He had Potions next, with the sodding Gryffindors no less, but the day had been far too good for him to dwell on that; it could wait.

Crabbe and Goyle had _not_, incidentally, elected to take Ancient Runes, nor had many of his other classmates. The class was too difficult for them, he figured, but it worried him little. Nevertheless, he was forced to walk to Potions alone every day. He hadn't minded it so much, seeing as he needed a break from the senseless chatter of his so-called friends.

Until then.

He ran into a girl in front of him as he turned down a corridor, and she stumbled and dropped her books. "Merlin's sake…" she murmured under her breath as she knelt down. Unconciously, Draco scooped up several books, handing them to the girl before him. She looked up slowly, and at that moment, he noticed several things at once: her bushy hair, her Gryffindor tie, and the loathing in her eyes.

He faltered imperceptibly, smoothing his face into a mask of indifference. He smirked casually, shoving her books into her hand roughly. "You're headed in the wrong direction, Gryffindor." He began to walk away, when her voice deterred him.

"I think your father has a part in this. In Harry being chosen for the Tournament."

Draco stopped walking, his back to her. He didn't want to think about… _that_ quite yet; for some reason, she and his father did not coexist well in his thoughts.

"Oh, do you?" he drawled, turning around slowly. His face was devoid of any emotion, and he hoped she wouldn't see it in his eyes. That used to be his weakness.

"Yes." She stood straight, clutching her books to her chest. She seemed to be scanning his face for something, but then she sighed. "What happened to you? You used to be so… innocent."

He wondered why he hated how disappointed in him she sounded. "I was never innocent," he heard himself mumbling. "I was meant to be like this."

"No, you weren't." She sounded so sure of herself, so _bloody self-righteous_, that he wanted to hit her and hug her all at once. "And I'm also fairly certain Potions isn't upstairs." She pointed to where he had been headed. The staircase that lead to the upper towers was directly behind him.

He mentally cursed himself as she began to walk away. "You could still get out of this, Draco," she whispered softly. Then, she turned the corner.

He very much wanted to believe her.

* * *

_Fifth Year_

That blasted room. It was going to ruin him.

He stared at the wall for what seemed like hours, trying to undo the riddle that allowed that entire sodding group of them to slither in like snakes, without so much as a hint as to where they were.

He was going mad, staring at it like that.

He crossed his arms and continued gazing at the place where a door, realistically, _should_ be, and huffed in frustration. Suddenly, he heard a whisper from the other side of the hall, and he quieted.

"_Go on… I think it's clear."_

He heard the pattering of footsteps, and Draco inched nearer to the corner, peeking his head around ever so slightly to see who was speaking. He saw person after person exit through the wall, and he saw the back of a bushy-haired head, looking around the other wall in much the same way he had been. He waited until everyone else was gone before he made his presence known.

She jumped when he cleared his throat, and her shock was quickly supplemented by hatred. She crossed her arms and glared at him, her eyes locked on his. Gold versus grey.

"Yes?" she asked impatiently.

He hated himself the minute the words stumbled out: "Why do you do it?"

She looked bewildered. She uncrossed her arms. "What?"

"Why do you do that… club thing?"

"_Why_?" she scoffed. "Because Umbridge isn't teaching us anything. And Harry…" She trailed off, as though a flashback had overtaken her, and Draco didn't like how easily her face softened when she thought of the Boy Who Lived.

"So?"

"_So_, we have to be able to defend ourselves. V-Voldemort doesn't discriminate between children and adults."

She said the name so easily now. It reminded him, again, of why they were so different; she refused to back down in a battle, and he only fought if necessary.

"I have to go." She rolled her eyes and spun on her heel, presumably to return to her common room, but Draco called out to her.

"Do you… can you really not stand me that much?"

A mixture of pity and—_bloody hell _he hated that look—disappointment flashed across her face, before she replied, "I absolutely loathe you."

She walked away without so much as a second glance, and Draco was left alone in the corridor.

* * *

_Sixth Year_

He was sixteen years old and his life was monumentally fucked up. No exaggeration, either.

He had already failed to complete the mission once already, sending Katie Bell to the Hospital Wing and leaving the rest of the school in mild paranoia. Snape latched onto his collar and threw him against the wall none too gently, and Draco glared at him.

"I swore to protect you," he murmured to his godson, and Draco wanted to punch him. He felt his fist clench.

"I don't _need_ protection!" he hissed back. Snape rolled his eyes as though bored, but did not release his grip.

"You naïve _child_," he spat. "The Dark Lord does not play games, Draco. He _will _kill you."

Draco shook Snape off, brushing his robes as if he was contaminated by the touch of his godfather. "I'm not afraid."

"Then you are a bigger fool than I thought." Snape gave him one last parting look before spinning on his heel and retreating into the party.

Draco leaned against the wall, rubbing the bridge of his nose and wondering why the _hell_ he always had a headache when another voice sliced through his thoughts.

"Draco...?"

He looked up quickly—_too quickly; blasted headache_—and scanned the corridor for his new companion. She emerged from the shadows, wearing a pale pink dress, her curls neatly in place, pinned back away from her face. She looked quite nice, if he did admit it to himself.

"Shove off, Granger."

He attempted to move past her, but she crossed her arms and stood in front of him. He expected anger in her eyes, perhaps even resentment, but all he found was desperation. "_Please_," she whispered, and he wondered how she could do that so easily; lay her emotions out on a platter for the entire world to see. "Please don't do this. Harry told me that… but I didn't…"

"Granger," he said stiffly. "Move."

With a resigned sigh, she moved aside, and he was halfway down the hall when he heard her mutter, "You could've been different."

He turned around. "No, Granger, I couldn't have. But it's endearing how you thought so."

He walked away, and didn't turn back. Not even when he heard a small sob escape her throat, or when he thought he heard her whisper his name, with a _please_ attached at the end.

* * *

_Seventh Year_

Decisions. Decisions.

It was now or never.

He glanced around those in front of him, and saw his former classmates bruised and bloodied. His teachers were not immune from the various cuts and marks; the parents, the aurors, everyone had fought. People had died tonight. People he had known, people he hadn't.

People had died.

On the other side of the invisible line were his parents. His mother, her hand shaking ever so slightly as her eyes implored him to come, and his shell of a father, who stood numbly beside his wife with no emotion in his expression. He could feel Granger's eyes on him, staring at him, and he refused to look her way, because he knew she would be the deciding factor.

_Decide. Decisions. _

He wondered how this could have been different, had he only been independent enough to not utter that word all those years ago. He wondered if he would be standing here, with both sides looking at him for a decision, or if he would be next to her without question, her hand in his. He wondered if those moments had shaped his life now, had determined his path, or if the way he went was fated, and he was destined to be at this crossroads without anyone to help him.

Now or never.

Forward, to his parents; to the right, to her.

He walked forward, through the crowd and clasped his mother's hand.

Only then did he look up. He met her eyes across the divide, and she was war-battered; she had a split lip, and there was a cut above her left eye. She was dirty and exhausted, but Draco had never thought she looked more perfect.

There were so many things he tried to communicate in that eye lock: that he was sorry, that he had tried, that she _had_ meant something to him. He wanted to tell her that he was stupid for saying that word all those years ago, and that he'd take it back in a heartbeat if he could.

He looked into her eyes, and where he wanted to see hope, he only saw sadness. There was no disappointment; she had finally learned that he was irredeemable. Not even she could save him anymore.

At age seventeen, Draco Malfoy came to a startling conclusion: fate was an evil bastard.


End file.
